Secret Heart
by Triskell
Summary: Draco muses during a ‘reunion’ of sorts (ficlet, slashy allusions)


Title: Secret Heart  
Author: Triskell (ferngully_at@yahoo.com)

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Draco muses during a 'reunion' of sorts

Author's Notes: ficlet, written in about an hour, not betaed, POV. Slash. Don't like it, don't read.

**~ Secret Heart ~**

**© Triskell, January 11, 2003**

They've all changed. The bold Gryffindors sit placidly together, a tangle of red-haired people I've never got to know. By rights, I shouldn't be here, and yet I am. Perhaps it's all as well, for I'm the only one who sees them, really sees them. 

The little girl that sits on Granger's lap, playing with her hair, calling her 'Mummy', not realising that her parents were both pure-blood, both fools. Ginny Weasley and Neville Longbottom. Dead and buried now, their child taken in by family, accepted, loved. Harry feels strongly for her; she was barely half a year old when they were killed. She'll never know. She looks a lot like the other Weasels, it doesn't matter that she shares no traits with Granger. A little family resemblance is enough to make her believe, forever.

I see behind their masks, they're people who don't acknowledge my existence by more than a curt nod. The war has changed many things, but they still despise me. No, not despise, that's too strong a word. They've become indifferent to the likes of me. My being with them is no concern of theirs. Harry is family, I tag along. The hero and his sidekick. I've replaced the Weasel, pathetic as it sounds.

The infamous three-some was broken soon after Granger's parents were killed. I've never heard much of it, only the accusations levelled at Harry by his best – male – friend, for deserting the muggle when she needed him the most. She had her very own red-haired tag-along, personally, I don't think she noticed Harry's absence overly much. She was supposedly grieving anyway. 

I may not like her, though I admire her strength. She kept the Weasleys tightly bonded through the past years. I wish my mother had been like her – strong, resistant, stubborn. Mother never endured. She faded when father began to pressure her, asked her to help him. It was when I drew away from them, looked for love elsewhere. Found it in Harry and severed all ties to my family. I still can't believe I was that stupid.

Sometimes, at night, I lie with him and ask myself if Azkaban or even death would've been so bad. I know Granger thinks along those lines too, sometimes. It's in her eyes. She's tired, wants to be loved and no one sees it. She's strong, she needs no help. She made believe she didn't and they believed her. Even the Weasel who so charmingly consoled her when Harry didn't. Couldn't, more like, he's had his own demons to fight with. Guilt, shame, devotion, it's all paled and seems useless now. The war's over and none of us will ever be the same again.

Does anyone but me notice how Granger's eyes light up when the Weasel touches her? A hand on her arm, a pat to her shoulder, a peck on the cheek? The red-haired kid is too young to ask why her supposed parents never kiss, never hold each other. I'm sure they did; embrace that is, perhaps even sleep close to each other; out of necessity I guess, during the war. Granger doesn't talk of feelings, for fear of hurting someone, of being hurt herself. Her courage fails her when she needs it. And she suffers; alone.

I see it, and I remain silent. No one would listen to me. I might share Harry's bed, might tag along behind him, but essentially, I'm not there. And our relationship's not as it was anyway – no kiss is carefree, innocent. When you've seen death, love tastes stale. There's only so much warmth another body exudes, only so much pleasure you can share, only hints of powerful feeling left to exploit when you've given all.

I can't remember if it ever was another way. If I ever loved Harry with a passionate longing, a desire and need, if I ever craved his touch. I might have, or not. It does no longer seem to matter, especially not at night; he seeks comfort in my arms and I offer him my body. I wonder if he knows there's nothing left of the old fire that we shared. I blame it on the war, the coldness and the bleak reality we lived in. We were young then, barely seventeen; but violence and pain has never stopped before youth. I killed. Men and women, some were old acquaintances I presume. I know I cursed Crabbe into untimely death. I think I surprised him, he did look surprised really, perhaps he hadn't believed I would change sides. Loyal to a fault. Ignorant, his fate mapped out by his parents; I took my destiny into my own hands, and looking back, see it has lead me on to nowhere.

I'm not alone, really, though I have no one with me. I'm not sure I miss Harry; I guess I would if I could remember what it used to be like between us. Even his name on my lips has become common place. I used to think it was sacred. I barely notice when he speaks mine.

"Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

Granger doesn't look at me, pouring the tea into my cup. I hold it steadily, my hand never shaking, not meeting her eyes. I'm a visitor, a shadow in her life. I don't really exist for her. She's pale, dark circles under her eyes.

"How is Ginny?"

Harry is talking to the Weasel and his brothers in another corner. Separated by so much more than the space of the room; he and I are no longer together it seems.

"She's fine, thank you." I don't expect to hear more, of course, polite disinterest doesn't prompt conversation. "She didn't sleep well last night; the fireworks scared her."

New Year's – favourite muggle holiday. Loud, boisterous, unnerving. You wouldn't know if you've never heard the war, twisted your head to make out where the sounds of battle come from, where the dying lie. If you've never tried to cross a field filled with death, you'll not notice the destruction inherent in the sounds of merry-making the change of year brings.

"You didn't sleep much yourself then."

"No." She almost seems surprised. "I wouldn't have thought you'd notice." Me neither, come to think of it. I shrug, she turns away, asking the others if they want more tea. I glance at Harry, see him smile. When was the last time he looked at me like that? Need I be jealous of the way he looks at Granger? A mere friend? Hard to believe it's come to this, that our love should be reduced to nothing in so short a time.

The Weasel catches me staring at them, furrows his brow. His eyes sparkle when he notices me looking at Granger. Emotion, how droll. I hadn't thought I can still provoke him, but it seems he does like the girl more than he lets on. I should want to play with him, though I can't find the fun in it. I should tease him, flirt with her even, just to get a reaction from him. I would have. Right now I'd rather Harry look at me though. Just once, so it's not as obvious that he hasn't spoken to me since we arrived. I'm baggage, out of place, and I haven't got the strength to resent it. It's not as if I had any pride left.

"Malfoy! Happy New Year!"

Another Weasley, the prefect this time. He must've come in just now, he's ruffled, red-cheeked, and still looks like a living statue. Some things never change; though I suppose his eyes didn't use to be so cold. He resembles me more than I thought he could. Harry once said I was like marble in the moonlight, like milky silk and fluorescent silver. I never saw it, perhaps he didn't either.

"Happy New Year." I stand up, shake his hand, sit down again. My manners have always been impeccable, my training was perfect. Now I use politeness in the face of adversity where once I'd have used words; to torment, torture or hurt. Love has changed me, though I don't feel it any more.

"Percy! You're late, you took ages coming. Here, have some tea. Would you like a bit of soup? It's still warm. Or some scones?"

Granger's bustling again, no wonder the Weasels love her. It must be hard to lose one's mother. Their father has never been the same since, or so Harry says. Mine hardly acknowledged mother's death; neither did I, really. I tend to tell myself I never truly knew her. It hurts less, and there are no questions asked, no answers given. Why accept feelings you don't want to have? It's so much easier to ignore them altogether.

"I'm fine. No soup, thank you. A scone would be nice though. You look tired, Hermione." At least I'm not the only one who noticed. It comforts me to think it's obvious she's not looking well; it's less disturbing than thinking I care about her in any way.

"Ginny didn't sleep well." I think they should have given the kid a different name. And they might have chosen someone other than Harry as godfather; not that it's any of my concern. I'm the side-kick, my feelings are of no importance. I used to laugh at the Weasel, now I know what it's like.

"I've invited a few friends today, I was hoping it'd cheer the place up." As if it could, Granger. This house has seen too much of the bloody war to be cheerful. But you still try, always try, and it's eating at you that you never succeed.

"Really, that's wonderful. Who is coming?" Of course the prefect would be interested; or not, though he masks his indifference better than others.

"Angelina and Katie, thought Fred and George would like to see them." Ah yes, female manipulation. Are you trying to set someone up, Granger? Hoping to at least make one or two in the family smile again? The twins haven't been seen often in this house since their mother died. I'd have never supposed they cared that much. 

"And then I asked Seamus and Dean; they're coming later this evening, oh, door. Be back in a second!" A Gryffindor gathering. Of course I knew that it would come to this; it always ends up that way, seeing that all the Weasels were in that blasted house to start with. Harry too; I wish I could find it more disturbing.

I hear Granger talking in the hall, non-stop. Playing hostess, being happy, smiling, dying inside. I wonder if that's the only way to live with all those red-haired idiots around. I shouldn't even think that, but she would deserve better. Though I suppose you take whatever family you can, when you have none yourself. I know I did. Harry was everything to me; I can't remember when he last told me he loved me. Perhaps he never did.

"Look who's here! It was hard enough to round him up, but…"

I'm sure I'm not the only one who is surprised to see the prefect jump up, cross the room and throw himself into the other guy's arms. It's weird. I had never associated emotion with him. 

"…looked everywhere for you… how…"

"…undercover…ministry…"

The murmuring makes precious little sense to me, and I feel uncomfortable. It's clear those two have a bond, that they care for each other; eerily enough they remind me of myself and Harry, a long time ago, before the war. The world didn't exist, it was just the two of us. Now it's only the world, and 'us' has ceased to exist. I despise feelings, I despise those two, standing there in each other's arms, oblivious to the stares they are given, content.

And then I look to the side and see Granger. She's smiling, no beaming more like, as if everything made perfect sense just then. I realise then that she's behind it all, that she knew they are together, or were together, that this was on purpose. Of course, I should have known, the war might have worn her out, but she's still the same brilliant witch she always was. Even if she's a muggle. She moves now, towards the other Weasley brothers, whispering something, radiant. 

As if the Weasel had finally said the magic words; it's so easy to look through her really. We're all transparent these days, I guess; longing for love and companionship. Some people find it, even after a war, some are forever separated from those that truly matter to them. Perhaps I'd be happier if Harry were dead. I'd have memories of a time when things were simple and love easy. Now I have nothing.

I'm looking out of the window, into the greyness of the evening. I've always liked the twilight, until I was forced to live in it, continuously seeing filth and stark, damp, rotten death, painted in the colours of the evening sun on infertile ground. Images are stronger than words.

"Hermione has taken to match-making it seems."

"Perhaps she'd better work on her Weasel a little more forcibly instead of messing with others." I hadn't planned to sound bitter. Emotion is for the weak, I thought I was past it all, had hoped that with losing love I'd regain some of my spirit, enough to reconstruct my pride.

"Ron'll get the message I'm sure. I know he worries about her. He's just not prepared…"

"Do you always have to defend the Weasel? Even when you know he's wrong?" Is that confusion, Harry, or does your face always look like this. I'm afraid I can't remember any more.

"What's happening to us, Draco?" Funny you should ask, and in the middle of a room that so bloody resembles a Gryffindor common room; for this is what we've come here for, to be among those who are like you, to be with those you love. There's no longer a place to talk about 'us', can't you just realise it and move on?

"Draco, look at me."

"Why?"  
  


"Because you haven't for a while. … I miss you."

You miss me? Why would you, Harry? Haven't you got everything?

"I miss you, Draco." I turn around. Not because I need to see if you're telling the truth. Even if I do; and I know the moment I look into your eyes. You missed _me_, of all people. 

"Do you care?" I sound like a little boy, levelling that very same question at my mother. I don't think she ever answered it.

"I love you." Three magic words. They turn my world upside down, make perfect sense for all that they shouldn't. Not after all that has happened. I shouldn't be able to feel at all, I my heart shouldn't beat a little faster. I shouldn't smile at you. But I do.

Finis.


End file.
